"Chatty Cathy"

I grew up in the era of the Chatty Cathy doll, and those of us named Kathy, HAD to have one. Our parents indulged and must have surely been a bit annoyed by the string attached to the back, that was continually pulled, and released, pulled and released, over and over again to see what Cathy would say. I did love that doll! I wish I had kept her!

As many "Kathy's" probably were, I was referred to as "chatty Cathy", more often than not. I liked to talk, too! Just like my "chatty Cathy" doll, I could ramble with the best of them, talk, talk, talk, and unlike my inanimate friend, there was no string attached or battery to take out! I was Miss Social and talk I did! The talking served me well as I followed my life's path, in high school being so involved in many clubs, went to college, attending every social gathering possible, and then becoming a teacher where I got to talk ALL day long. Oh, yes, I could talk. I liked to listen, too, but if I am honest, I probably liked to talk more!

The shift began when personal experiences began and I chose to sit back and listen. The world is fascinating when we listen! Other people's stories, the sounds of the world waking up, or the sound of nature, the laughter, the cries. I slowly began to realize that I couldn't hear all there is to hear if I am talking. I suppose I awakened to the possibility that my voice didn't need to fill up the quiet, or the unknown, or the uncomfortable aura when silence is not golden. So, over time, I became more silenced and I listened. I could not have known that later in life, the silence would be a constant companion in the form of grief. I had to learn how to be still and silent, first when my mother passed, after all, she was the original "Chatty Cathy" of the 50's! She and I talked like no other. When she was gone, that part of my life became silent. Oh, sure, other talking was necessary, my daughters were young, my marriage was young, Joe and I were finding our way, and there was LOTS to talk about. Yet, a part of me became silent. Other losses and changes in life caused me to be silenced, as well. Not permanently. Not for eternity. But silenced, nonetheless. And the "chatty Cathy" changed, at least on the inside.

Losing Allison silenced me in ways that I can never describe. Although, to the "naked eye" that may not be the case. I still entertain. I still host dinner or other parties. I still feel compelled to make others feel comfortable at gatherings. I even laugh now. I share stories, again. I have a voice. But that voice is different. At least on the inside and from my own perspective. And silence fills my day.

The largest part of my day is quiet, and I don't feel the need to "fill" it with my chatter. If I am honest, there are times, still, and probably always, when I cannot pick up the phone, talk, or say a word. I hesitate to solidly "book" events or weekend trips (although no one would really know that by the looks of my often filled calendar), but when I do, it is with the stipulation that I will, IF I can. I cannot predict how life will be, and I have surely come to know that how I feel about something this morning, could very well change by this afternoon. This is grief. This is the silence of the heart.

I suppose I will always be "Chatty Cathy" in some sense. It's not that I don't have something to say. I do. Of course, I have an opinion and I have thoughts and ideas. It's just that all of that chatter isn't important to me anymore. In fact, again, being honest, the chatter and chit chat, that I do claim to enjoy on one end, brings me back to where I am in my life. A woman, a mother, a wife, a sister, a friend to many, but yet, a quiet, reflective soul, who does not mind where I am, at any given moment, who has truly learned that the next day, or even later today, is not promised, that life is so very short, that there is no room for bickering, or worry, or discord, and who knows that the only way to care for others is to care for myself. I often, now, cannot "handle" the chatter and the talking, it's whimsical and even mundane to me now. It is often over stimulating and when I experience too much of it, I have to recover, regroup, and rest, maybe even for days. That is what grief does, it changes everything, the social status, the conversations in our home, the visits with others, the listening. It changes virtually everything, this thing called grief. Grief is the master teacher, and the lessons are painful. Grief robs you and it stalks you. But it gives, and what it gives to each of us is different. Grief has given me silence, time to come to know myself, time to be Kathy, time to give up the chatter and learn to love the solitude, the peace and the wonderment of what God shows us when we stop talking. On a day like this, a perfectly beautifully spring-like, winter day, the quiet is all I need.